


A Study in Claret

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baker Street, after the holiday season has passed. To celebrate Holmes’s birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Claret

**Author's Note:**

> No beta on this one, mostly. There wasn’t time for a thorough beta, because I’m goofy, and I wanted to post this on the sixth! But many thanks to vsee, who held my hand while I tried to figure out a title and gave me helpful, insightful suggestions on a quick preview read. Thanks also to nodbear for providing me with the lovely mental image of Holmes in his dressing gown.

Watson did not buy Holmes a gift for Christmas. He considered doing so several times but ultimately decided to save himself the bother when Holmes would undoubtedly have nothing for him. Instead, he chose a pretty trinket for Mrs. Hudson, gave it to her with a card that he signed with both Holmes’ name and his own, and made himself content with sharing a quiet holiday by the fire with Holmes, who was in remarkably good spirits considering the recent dearth of interesting cases.

At the breakfast table a week later, while frowning at the dressing gown Holmes wore—a drab, mousy-brown thing with a fraying hem—Watson began to question his decision. He had seen many items that might have made an appropriate gift, but the one that had attracted him most was a dressing gown of a beautiful, wine-dark red. Holmes would likely never have chosen it for himself, but Watson was certain the color would suit Holmes beautifully.

Holmes was absorbed with the post, so Watson had the leisure to study Holmes’ figure and imagine replacing his worn garment with the elegant one from the shop. Suddenly Holmes threw his letter aside in disgust, and Watson started. He did not intend to read the letter but caught several words at a glance: _your birthday_ and _dinner at the Diogenes_. This was too much temptation. He devoured the rest of the text while Holmes went to the mantel to prepare his pipe.

_My dear brother,_

_While I respect that you are not in favor of observing arbitrary anniversaries, I know that you are usually willing to indulge my fondness for celebrating your birthday. Therefore I beg that you accept my invitation this Friday for dinner at the Diogenes._

_—M_

P.S. Please invite your Doctor Watson, if his presence might increase the likelihood of your accepting.

Watson immediately resolved to dress as soon as he finished his breakfast and sneak out to the shops.

*****

“The blue would suit you better, Doctor Watson,” a quiet, teasing voice said behind him.

Watson turned away from the shop display. It took him a moment to recognize the pretty face that smiled at him from beneath a stylish hat: Mrs. Phillips, the widow of a surgeon who had served with him in Afghanistan. He had not seen her since before being deployed. She had aged slightly, but in a way that suited her. She had been rather too thin when Watson had first met her, a shy bride hosting one of her first dinners, and her figure was more womanly now.

Watson felt a twinge of guilt. Her husband had been little more than an acquaintance, their intimacy during training heightened by the anticipation of their first taste of battle, but when Watson had returned to England, though little more than an invalid, he should have made time to call on Mrs. Phillips and offer his condolences. He began to stammer something of an apology, but she waved her hand and smiled.

“I’m just pleased to see you again. Let’s talk of more cheerful subjects, shall we?” She stepped close and put her gloved hand on his arm. “Such as this beautiful dressing gown. Really though, don’t you agree that blue is more your color?”

Watson smiled, relieved of his guilt by her easy manner. “I’m sure you’d know better than I. But it’s not for me, I’m afraid. It’s a gift for a friend.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Then perhaps you should buy the blue one for yourself as well,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “It would bring out your eyes.”

Only then did Watson understand that she was flirting with him. He thought of her only as the bereaved widow of a former colleague, but in the next moment she was inviting him to dinner, asking if he were free the following evening.

“I’m sorry, but I have a prior engagement,” Watson answered. He was shocked at how easily he lied and at a loss to explain to himself why he had done so. “But perhaps at some future … That is, I would be honored…”

She laughed at his babbling and took his arm. “Do help me find a cab, would you? It’s one of several things I find very tiresome as a woman alone.”

Watson offered his arm.

“Where are you lodging, Doctor? I’ll write you, so that we may find a date agreeable to us both.”

By this time they were at the door of the shop. Watson held open the door for Mrs. Phillips, then stepped out into the wintry drizzle. The rain made it difficult to find an unengaged hackney, and Watson struggled to be polite until he could dash back inside and secure Holmes’ gift.

*****

On Friday morning Watson woke early, dressed quickly, and crept downstairs. Holmes was still in his room, so Watson hid the parcel under the tablecloth and sat down with the newspaper. He made himself wait until Holmes had come into the room in his threadbare dressing gown and eaten something before pulling the present out from under the table.

He merrily bid Holmes a happy birthday, all the while bracing himself for a snide remark. Crowded in among the breakfast dishes, the box seemed so much larger than it had in the shop. Holmes glanced at Watson, a hint of a smile playing about the corner of his mouth, and tore open the wrapping without a word. Though his expression on first seeing his gift did not alter, Watson could see that he was pleased. He immediately stood, handed it to Watson, and pulled off his old robe.

Watson rubbed the cloth between his fingers—so very soft. The silk lining was cool to the touch but would warm quickly and keep its wearer warm as well.

Holmes turned his back so that Watson could hold the new dressing gown for him as he slid his arms into the sleeves. Holmes was smiling by the time he turned again to face Watson, who felt a stupid, inexplicable pride that Holmes looked so fine and seemed so delighted with his present.

“And how did you know that today is my birthday?” Holmes asked with a sly look as he tied the belt around his waist.

Watson felt himself blushing. “I didn’t mean to read your brother’s letter, but he writes with a rather large hand, wouldn’t you say?”

A raised eyebrow from Holmes convinced Watson that Holmes had left the letter in view on purpose so that Watson might act on the information, but he was content to let Holmes enjoy his own cleverness without commenting.

“Are you meeting your brother for dinner this evening?” Watson said.

“If you read my letter you know that you were also invited. Don’t you think I would have informed you if I were planning to attend?”

“Perhaps. But as impolite as it was to read your private correspondence without your permission, wouldn’t it have been even more so to presume that you would extend the invitation to me?”

“Nonsense. But I put Mycroft off—perhaps we can dine with him next week. For tonight, what would you say to dinner at Simpson’s?”

Watson smiled, honored that Holmes wanted to share his celebratory dinner with him. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“Perfect.”

Holmes turned his attention back to his newspaper then. Watson poured two more cups of tea, and they spent the remainder of the morning in companionable quiet.

*****

“What on earth are you thinking of, Watson? Your expression is positively smug.”

Watson shook himself out of his reverie. He had indeed been feeling pleased with himself, studying the elegant figure Holmes cut in his new dressing gown and feeling very satisfied with his choice of gifts. Also, Holmes’ good humour continued: they had had a very pleasant meal together at Simpson’s, and this morning Holmes was entertaining him with criticisms of police performance as described in the leading articles of the morning edition.

There was another reason for Watson’s being pleased: very late the night before, he had put the finishing touches on the first draft of a story. He had asked Holmes’ permission to write up one of their cases weeks ago, and Holmes had agreed with some amusement. Watson was now eager to share what he had accomplished, but that did not mean that he was not exceedingly shy about raising the subject.

After a sip of tea and a bracing breath, Watson said, “I’ve finished a story.”

Surprise registered on Holmes’ face briefly before it fell back into polite interest.

“Would you read it?” Watson asked, hating the heat he felt rising in his cheeks. “I don’t want to get it wrong, or misrepresent your methods.”

Holmes’ expression turned skeptical, and for a moment Watson feared he would refuse. But when he spoke, his voice was teasing. “I will read it only if you can promise that it’s nothing like your yellowbacks.”

Watson laughed with relief and went to his desk to pull the manuscript out of the drawer. As he handed it to Holmes, a knock sounded at the door and Mrs. Hudson entered to bring the morning post and collect the breakfast dishes.

“One for you, Watson.”

He took the letter from Holmes’ hand. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but Watson knew immediately what the envelope contained: an invitation to dinner with the eager Mrs. Phillips. Watson knew he would agree. He felt it his duty to give some attention to the widow of a fallen comrade, but reading the letter seemed to drain all of the cheerfulness from the room. Even Holmes fell quiet, abandoning his humourous commentary on the foibles of Scotland Yard. And Watson’s story sat on the table, ignored.

*****

As Watson half-heartedly dressed for his dinner engagement, he wavered about what to wear. The invitation had been for a ‘quiet dinner at home,’ but in the end Watson decided on formal evening dress. When the maid led him into the sitting room, he was glad of it. Mrs. Phillips’ gown was grand, with a rather daring décolletage for a simple dinner, much less for a woman not long out of mourning, but Watson was glad not to have to feel himself shabby by comparison. He was disconcerted to find, however, that he was the only guest.

They proceeded into the dining room rather quickly, and Watson was relieved to have numerous excellent dishes as fodder for discussion. In a short while, however, there seemed to be more clinking silverware than conversation to be heard, and Watson could not help but contrast the stilted atmosphere with the wonderful birthday dinner the night before. There had been no awkward silences then, but his exchange with Holmes was hardly something he could duplicate with Mrs. Phillips: cases worthy of lurid headlines and Holmes’ latest chemical experiments. Holmes had ruined Watson for conventional dinner conversation.

Watson wondered what Holmes was doing while home alone. He rather hoped that Holmes might read the story, but he had likely forgotten all about it. Watson wished he had never brought it up. He should have sent the pages to a publisher and only asked for Holmes’ blessing afterward, if he were successful. Watson would rather hear from a stranger than from Holmes that the story was dreadful.

“Doctor Watson?”

He realized that Mrs. Phillips had been talking to him, but he had been too engrossed in his thoughts to hear her. “My apologies. I have difficulty setting aside my work at times. I beg your pardon.”

“Oh! Is it a case?” she asked with delight. “I read your name in the paper. How very exciting for you to be assisting Mr. Holmes.”

Watson smiled nervously. “No, not a case.”

“Do tell me about Mr. Holmes. He sounds like quite the fascinating character.”

It was strange to talk about Holmes to a bare acquaintance, but at least there was no shortage of interesting facts to convey. Holmes’ genius proved to be sufficient topic to carry them straight through dessert and out into the sitting room for coffee.

It was there on the sofa that Watson began to be distracted from singing Holmes’ praises by Mrs. Phillips inching closer to him. When her hand found its way onto his knee and squeezed, Watson stopped speaking altogether. Searching his brain for some manner of respectfully extracting himself, he could only stare at the well-manicured hand on his leg.

Mrs. Phillips laughed at him, but not cruelly. “Don’t be so earnest, John. There’s no need to be anxious. May I call you John?”

Watson nodded.

“I have no wish to marry again,” she continued. “But I find I miss the … companionship of marriage. I’d hoped we might come to some kind of arrangement that would suit us both?”

She leaned close and pressed her lips to his. He sat motionless, still holding his cooling coffee. Another kiss, then she took the cup and saucer from his hand and placed them on the table. When she turned back, she moved yet closer, climbing half onto Watson’s lap as she slid her tongue into his mouth. He allowed his lips to part and closed his eyes.

Mrs. Phillips pushed one hand into Watson’s jacket. Her other hand grasped Watson’s and pressed it to her breast, but he could feel nothing of the flesh beneath—only the lace of her gown and the hard stays of her corset. He let his hand fall to her waist and pulled her to him. She gave a small sigh of approval, and her kisses grew more enthusiastic. She wriggled herself more fully onto Watson’s lap, pressing her backside against him, but Watson was unaffected.

She did not seem to register his lack of response, and Watson was bothered by how little she cared for his pleasure. It was yet another way Holmes had spoiled Watson for ordinary society: he had grown accustomed to having the smallest nuances of his reactions and humours noticed. The thought of Holmes made Watson feel doubly ashamed, exponentially ashamed, for Holmes would scorn Watson’s efforts to be polite to such a woman.

“I’m sorry,” Watson gasped, pushing Mrs. Phillips away gently and lurching to his feet. “I am so very sorry.”

She looked up at him, crestfallen. Her elaborate hairstyle was mussed, and her chest still rose and fell in panting breaths over her plunging neckline. Watson felt for her, but could not continue the charade. After one more whispered apology, he made his way to the door, finding his coat and hat and shutting the front door behind him as quietly as possible to avoid alerting the servants to his premature departure.

As he walked slowly home, Watson fretted over the disastrous evening. He felt himself to be at fault. What other man, even a gentleman, would refuse such an arrangement? She was beautiful, pleasant, reasonably intelligent, and certainly eager, but he had not felt the slightest hint of arousal. Surely it was the fantasy of every healthy young man to have a beautiful woman throwing herself at him with no promises expected.

Healthy: perhaps there was the key. Watson wanted to think of himself as completely recovered, but his body disappointed him in countless small ways on a daily basis. He should not be surprised if it failed him in larger, more important aspects as well.

He attempted to diagnose his situation in the mindset an objective professional and summarily rejected the idea that his injuries and illness had rendered him permanently impotent. Although it embarrassed him somewhat to think on it while walking on a public street, he was nonetheless reassured to remember that he had taken himself in hand with some regularity in recent months. It was only during the worst depths of his illness that he had had a complete absence of sexual drive.

Watson had always enjoyed pursuing a woman who had caught his eye, flirting and attempting to capture her attention in turn—it was no small wonder that he found Mrs. Phillips’ eagerness repulsive. But Watson remembered how very easily he had been able to attract the attention of young ladies before he left for Afghanistan. Now, he was too thin and his complexion was not quite right. He supposed he should be grateful for the general lack of attention, for it was infinitely preferable to the looks of compassion or even aversion he had sometimes received when first venturing out after his convalescence. If he would never again be the man he had been before Maiwand, he was, at least, no longer an object of pity.

When Watson reached the corner of Baker Street, he hesitated. He was a mere two blocks from home, but his mind was too unsettled to face Holmes. He would be ashamed to have Holmes glean his thoughts in his current state. Instead, Watson turned in the opposite direction and wandered the neighborhood for he knew not how long, returning home only after he had exhausted himself.

Holmes surprised Watson by coming to the sitting room door to greet him and take his arm. He led Watson to his chair and lifted his bad leg as he pushed a footstool under it as support. Watson wanted to argue: Holmes should not take on the role of nursemaid, but his manner was so matter of fact that Watson did not feel ashamed. Once he was settled comfortably, Holmes studied him for several long moments. Watson did not look away, braving the scrutiny without squirming until Holmes seemed satisfied.

Watson refused Holmes’ offer to ring for tea but accepted when Holmes wordlessly brought him a tumbler of whiskey. As Holmes presented the glass, he said casually, “In a fit of boredom this evening, I read your story.”

Watson’s breath caught, and he looked up at Holmes, his eagerness overcoming his anxiety. Holmes’ expression was maddening: placid and inscrutable. Watson could tell nothing of his opinion.

Holmes retrieved the manuscript from a side table and dropped it into Watson’s lap unceremoniously. “It is not to my taste,” he said, but Watson spied a glint in his eye. “But I have no objection whatever to your publishing it. I admit it is … entertaining. I’ve taken the liberty of making a few suggestions in the margins.”

Watson bent his head to hide his blush and look at Holmes’ scribbled comments. There were far more than a ‘few’ notes, but even in a hurried scan, Watson could see that there were words of approval and encouragement as well as corrections and criticisms, and his eyes were stung by tears. He resolved not to weep in front of Holmes—his weakness was only from being so very tired. He turned to the page with keen attention, becoming absorbed in the story in spite of himself.

Hours later Watson looked up from his reading to find Holmes watching him closely and realized that he had been managed: diverted from his agitation and low spirits by Holmes’ manipulation. The notion itself did not bother Watson. However, now that his focus was interrupted, he began to feel fretful. He could not remember the earlier part of his evening without becoming ill at ease once again.

Holmes’ voice intruded on his thoughts. “Forgive me if I leave you to your work. I have had a tune running through my brain all day. I trust the noise will not disturb you?” He did not wait for an answer before taking up his violin.

This time Watson was immediately aware of Holmes’ intent, but he was very willing to be soothed by Holmes’ playing. He drifted off to the pleasant melody, his manuscript still on his lap.

*****

When Watson woke, he was surprised to find himself warmed by a blanket. All of the lamps but one had been doused, and the fire had been banked. A moment’s inspection revealed his coverlet to be the quilt from Holmes’ bed. It seemed very late indeed, and Watson loathed the idea of moving, but if he continued all night in the chair, his bones would not thank him in the morning.

He assumed that Holmes had retired, but when he pulled himself from the chair and limped out to return the quilt, he found Holmes’ room empty. Returning to the landing, he found himself face to face with Holmes, who was just emerging from the lavatory. He was wearing his dressing gown. His hair was wet, combed back slick from his forehead, and his face had a hint of color from the heat of the bathwater.

Watson yawned and breathed in the fresh scent of soap. “Good night,” he mumbled.

Holmes’ hand alit on Watson’s forearm. “Rest well, my dear boy.”

As Holmes stepped back to let Watson pass, the front of his dressing gown parted, revealing a glimpse of his bare leg. Watson averted his gaze, embarrassed. As Watson closed his bedroom door behind him, he thought of silk against his fingertips, but pushed the stray memory aside.

The chill in the air had chased away some of his sleepiness. He went to the fireplace only to find it already laid for him—he suspected that this was yet another favor for which he owed Holmes thanks—so it was not long before there were a few flames giving off a cheerful glow if not yet enough heat to be useful. Watson undressed and pulled on his nightgown before rushing into bed. He was still very tired, but sleep might be a long time coming, for he began to feel a familiar, not unpleasant restlessness.

He settled himself under the bedclothes more comfortably, then tried to keep still. His hips wanted to twitch up slightly, pushing against the worn softness of his old nightgown and the weight of the many blankets he had piled on the bed against the January chill. His mild excitement increased, and he burrowed one hand through the bedclothes to stroke himself lightly.

Perhaps he had jumped to conclusions: it seemed his interlude with Mrs. Phillips had not been without its effects. She was a lovely woman—it took little effort to imagine her without the stiff layers, all warm curves in his arms. But the very thought of holding her recalled all of the discomfort he had felt, and he could not banish it from his mind. His burgeoning arousal began to fade.

This would not do. Watson closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind completely. He decided he must concentrate on sensation only: the warmth of his comfortable bed, the comforting crackle of the fire, the soft fabric against his body. _The touch of silk on bare flesh_.

Watson froze in horror. _Holmes’ pale skin_. It was too much. It was wildly inappropriate. But Watson’s cock was hard and straining into his hand now, and he could not fight the commotion in his mind: _Holmes’ naked thigh_.

The damned dressing gown. Watson had bought the thing himself, had held it in his hands and relished its sensual softness. _Holmes, a sly teasing expression on his face_. Watson grabbed his cock with an almost vicious desire to stop its rebellious reaction, but even that too-tight pressure was exquisite.

Holmes would never give in to such a temptation. He was always in control. _Oh, to see him lose control, lose that inscrutable calm. To see him flushed, sweating_. Watson knew he must stop. _To see his muscles straining. To hear him plead_. There was no way to stop now—he gave himself up to it, thrusting into his fist. _To hear him swear, to make him cry out. Oh God, to make him beg for release. To be clutched close, to taste his mouth. To be touched, desired, needed._

His climax overtook him without mercy. He coated his hand and drenched his nightgown. He was left curled over his arm, breathless—almost blind from lack of air. Then he fell back on the mattress, panting, appalled and elated by what he had discovered.

*****

Watson slept poorly and rose from his bed more tired than when he had gotten into it. He crept downstairs to the sitting room, hoping Holmes might have slept late, having climbed out of his bed in the wee hours, caught up in his chemical instruments or some other puzzle. It seemed that lately there had been fewer of those mornings where Holmes slept through breakfast, and while on the average day Watson enjoyed both ensuring that Holmes consumed at least one reasonable meal, on that particular morning he feared if Holmes gave him anything more than a cursory morning greeting, there would be no hiding his confusion.

When Watson cautiously opened the sitting room door, Holmes seemed to be absorbed in the newspaper, so Watson was able to slide into his own chair without any particular notice. He lifted the cover off the serving dish and helped himself to Mrs. Hudson’s hearty breakfast, grateful to have something to do. The front page appeared beside his silverware, but by the time he glanced up, Holmes’ attention had already returned to his own reading.

Holmes’ distraction gave Watson some small measure of relief, but now that he had dared to look up, he found the sight of Holmes in his new dressing gown distressing. Watson could not look away. Holmes also wore a shirt and trousers now, of course, but that did not stop Watson from recalling with agonizing detail the glimpse of Holmes lean, muscular leg, and the confusing passion it had engendered. Nor was it any less distracting seeing the pale skin of Holmes’ throat framed by the open collar of his white shirt and the saturated red of his lapels.

While Watson’s plate grew cold, he stared, unable to force away the images he had conjured last night, both while awake and in his restless dreams. He had imagined things that would shock and disgust a man like Holmes. _Touching him, kissing him, making him beg._

There could have been no worse moment for Holmes to lose interest in his paper. When he looked up and smiled—one of his rare, genuine smiles—Watson could not help but stare, fixated by the curve of his mouth. Then he tore his eyes away and leapt up from the table. He walked only a few feet away, realizing that there truly was no escape. There would be no hiding this from Holmes. Better to have it all out and not live for the short time concealment might be possible with this sick feeling in his belly. He turned to face Holmes, who wore an expression of astonishment at Watson’s behavior.

Watson had no illusions about his own abilities. He knew that he had nothing like Holmes’ extraordinary gift for deducing a man’s thoughts, yet he could almost believe that he saw the exact second when Holmes understood.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said. His voice was quiet with something like wonder.

In a heartbeat he was out of his chair and across the room. He took Watson’s face in both hands and kissed him.

It was nothing like Watson had imagined. Holmes was far more tender than the imperious lover of Watson’s uneasy imagination. But when Watson clutched at Holmes’ waist to crush their bodies together, the kiss became more passionate, and Watson could not breathe. He pushed past Holmes’ lapel, reaching inside that silken lining, seeking the warmth of his flesh through the thin fabric of his shirt. Holmes felt strong and alive and impatient, and Watson’s knees began to wobble.

Holmes looked at Watson in concern, then led him to the settee and insisted that he sit. Watson wished he could explain: it was desire, not his bad leg, that made him shake so, but he could not find the words. Again, Holmes seemed to read his mind. He sat down with him and kissed him again. Watson returned the kiss enthusiastically, parting Holmes’ lips to lick into his mouth as he tugged at the knot of Holmes’ belt, wanting to feel again the heat of his body.

“Watson,” Holmes panted. “We must restrain ourselves.”

Watson did not answer. He tugged Holmes’ shirttail from his trousers and slid one hand up inside to touch the glorious smooth skin and taut muscle at the small of Holmes’ back. Holmes gasped and grabbed at Watson’s head to seal their mouths together, but straight away he withdrew again.

“Please, my dear.”

Watson would not let him go, wrapping his arms about his waist and keeping him close.

“Please! Mrs. Hudson will come soon to clear the table. We must stop.”

This might have seemed like a reproach or even a rejection if Holmes were not half sitting in Watson’s lap and whispering the words between kisses to his jaw and neck.

Watson, his hands now buried deep in Holmes’ clothing, groaned in frustration.

Holmes lifted his head. “We must wait for tonight,” he insisted with exasperating composure.

Watson kissed Holmes again, stroking up and down his spine until he let out a small whimper. Of course he was being sensible to urge caution, but Watson could not let him go without establishing that underneath that maddening self-possession, Holmes was as desperate to continue as he was himself.

This time when Holmes moved away, Watson did not fight him, only asserting that it would be the longest day on record.

Holmes laughed. “The shortest day of the year is only a fortnight behind us. It will certainly not be—”

“But it will seem so.”

Reaching up to smooth Watson’s hair, Holmes sighed—as romantically sentimental a sound as Watson could ever have wished for. “Indeed.” Then Holmes kissed him, most tenderly.

“If we must wait, then you must dress, and quickly,” Watson said, withdrawing his hand from Holmes’ dressing gown. He found the tasseled ends of the belt and tied a sturdy knot. “Seeing you in this is extremely distracting.”

“That can easily be accomplished,” Holmes answered. “But after that, how will we amuse ourselves?”

Watson gave Holmes a scolding look, for his insinuating tone was surely not calculated to encourage restraint. After one more lingering kiss, Watson pushed Holmes’ leg off his lap and moved to the opposite end of the settee. A slow, deep breath made it easier to think calmly. What could possibly keep them occupied?

“I’ve made a lot of changes to the story,” Watson offered. “I’m not sure it’s finished, but perhaps it will serve as a distraction as well as it did the last time.” Holmes face lit up. “Ah!” He dashed into his bedroom. When he returned, he had further tidied his clothes and looked more himself, though Watson noted with satisfaction that his lips were reddened from their kisses. He was holding a small, oblong box wrapped in silver paper and decorated with a red ribbon.

“Holmes,” Watson said as he eyed the package. “What is that?”

“Your Christmas gift.”

“My—?”

Holmes’ grin was charmingly boyish. “I had assumed you would want to celebrate the traditions of the day, but when no gift appeared I did not bring yours out of its hiding place.”

Watson was struck dumb.

“Do not worry yourself over it, my dear. I understand now that this…” Holmes’ hand skimmed over the fabric of his dressing gown. “…is my Christmas gift, deferred to an occasion where you could have no expectations and therefore no disappointment if the gesture were not returned.”

Watson almost thought that Holmes himself had been disappointed by not being able to present his gift—a very surprising and affecting notion. He slid closer until his thigh pressed against Holmes’ and took his hand, but Holmes pulled his hand away and replaced it with the box.

“Now open it. Please.”

Watson removed the ribbon and wrapped it around one finger, savoring the anticipation. After pulling the paper away, Watson snuck another quick glance. He was filled with a rush of joy and affection and bent his head to kiss Holmes’ cheek. Holmes scowled and nudged him away, and his impatience made Watson smile.

When Watson finally opened the box he found inside a gleaming silver fountain pen. Watson drew it from its velvet nest to admire it. There was an inscription:

_For My Boswell Ever Yours — SH_

“I hope,” Holmes said quietly. “That you will always use it when you write your stories, which I maintain are ridiculous but will be wildly successful. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

Watson was speechless. Let Holmes tease and criticise all he liked. His backhanded praise was more than sufficient.

“I am sorry, Watson. You thought me devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. But it was only to hide the enormity of my regard for you that I pretended to be so cold and unfeeling.”

Watson threw himself at Holmes, pinning him to the cushions and burying his fingers in his hair as he kissed him. His fingers traveled of their own volition to the knot at Holmes’ waist. Holmes pulled away, laughing, then said Watson’s name—a clear warning. Watson stole one last kiss as Holmes removed his hand from the belt and pulled the story pages from under his thigh with a pointed look.

Watson felt himself chastised, but he could he keep the smile from his face. He mustered his energy and made a genuine effort to compose himself, and they prepared to pass the day: debating over Watson’s manuscript, training themselves to discretion, and waiting for night to fall.

None too soon did they settle into more respectable postures, for in a moment Mrs. Hudson came into the room with the briefest of introductory knocks and a cheerful good morning. As she crossed the room, she noted the torn wrapping paper on the floor and bent to retrieve it. It was only as she left the room that she spoke again, with the same brisk efficiency she had shown in gathering up the breakfast things.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor Watson.”

The End


End file.
